


Second Time For Everything

by metarachel, omgbubblesomg



Series: Invaders [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Electrocution, Humiliation, Hurt Jensen Ackles, Hurt No Comfort, Jensen Whump, M/M, Master/Slave, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, POV Alternating, Painful Sex, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Slave Danneel Harris, Slave Jensen Ackles, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-07 20:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18880939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metarachel/pseuds/metarachel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: They get stuck in traffic, and Jensen can’t help it, he laughs. It’s maybe a little hysterical but he’s a sex slave in an alien fucking space car and they’re stuck in traffic. He should be counting every second’s delay as a blessing—one more second he won’t have to walk into his new owner’s home, cower in his new master’s bed—but frankly he’s too tired for that bullshit and he just wants it over with already. He wants to see his wife and kids. He wants his damn phone back so he can make sure they’re okay.





	1. Jensen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silver9mm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver9mm/gifts).



> Happy birthday Silver! We hope this brings you many smiles :)
> 
> This fic picks up where the last one left off, so if you haven't yet, we recommend reading that fic first. If you're unfamiliar with our writing please for the love of god mind the tags. This is DARK, pals.

“Hi,” Jared calls loudly from the front door of Jensen’s trailer. “Hi, Censor, how are you?”

Jensen freezes with his hands buried in his lathered-up hair. He didn’t realize that Jared has been _standing guard_. Or standing watch, anyway; it’s not like _anyone_ can guard him from Alien. He’s been made infinitely aware of _that_. At least Bob managed to get him out of work for the rest of the day. There’d been some heated argument and a few moments where Jensen was certain that half the production team was going to get zapped into unconsciousness, but Bob’s had plenty of practice at dealing with Censor, and he had finally convinced it that they could rearrange the shooting order to wrap on Jensen without “sacrificing efficiency.”

That was half an hour ago, and Jensen’s been in the shower ever since.

None of that changes the fact that he’s now trapped alone in his trailer while his _new owner_ is  coming straight for his front door.

Jared says something too-bright and obviously intended as a distraction, and Jensen hardly gets a chance to back into the corner before Jared’s aborted scream announces exactly how Alien treats people who don’t get out of its way. And then the trailer door opens and the corner of the bathroom isn’t big enough to hide in, but he tries anyway, pulling Misha’s—well, Cas’s—coat around him as he goes. It’s drenched and uncomfortable and not shower appropriate at all, but when faced with the prospect of being naked in any capacity—even for a shower—he hadn’t been able to do it.

“Jensen,” Alien says as it opens the (locked) bathroom door, smiling and looking him up and down. “You have exceeded your allocated usage for heated running water.” Well, at least it doesn’t look too upset about it. Not that Jensen’s sure that’s a good thing; Alien has _never_ let a broken rule slide before, and it’s worrisome that it’s doing it now. That maybe it expects . . . _favors_ in exchange. God knows that Jensen met enough humans like that in his younger Hollywood years to recognize one when he sees one now.

“I’m sorry,” Jensen begins. “I just . . .”

Alien had to stoop to fit in the trailer, and it stoops even further to take a step into the little ensuite bathroom. It eyes his coat, and he clutches it even closer. “This would seem contrary to proper hygiene practices,” it says. And then it _reaches_ for the coat, and Jensen’s muscles burn to fight it, to knock its hand away, but though it’s only been half a day, he’s learned his lesson already, hasn’t he. Like a good dog.

Cheeks flaming from way more than just the heat of the shower, he lets go of the coat.

Alien peels it off him without even looking at it. It’s got eyes only for his face, his chest, his stomach, and between his legs where Jensen tries to cover himself when the coat is gone. Alien shifts his hands aside gently, and tilts its head a little. With its enormous hands covering his own and its enormous face hovering above him and its enormous body blocking the only exit, he feels small. Just a little butterfly in a display case.

Pinned. Still alive, but squirming. He knows what’s going to happen next. He _knows_ , and he’d give _anything_ to fly away.

“Your asymmetrical nasal bridge is endearing,” Alien says peaceably. “As are your random hyper-pigmentations. You should not be embarrassed of them.” It lifts its hands to thumb across the freckles on his shoulders, then leaves its palms there, almost pushing him down with the weight of its arms. He remains standing, but it’s a close thing. His knees quake.

“Here’s your towel,” Misha says loudly, appearing behind Alien as if actually summoned by prayer and making a beeline for the bathroom. Jensen can’t help himself from reaching out for him, though he pretends it’s for the towel as soon as Misha squeezes past Alien’s bulk.

“Ah,” says Alien. “But you are not yet clean?” It gestures to the sticky, flaky streaks of _don’t think about it_ —that still mark his thighs and, if the itch is anything to go by, his back.

“It’s fine,” Misha waves off. “Can’t even tell. Let’s get you dressed, huh?”

“But,” says Alien, somehow growing to its full height even inside the trailer. “You are not clean.”

Jensen reaches blindly for the taps. “Okay,” he says, “okay, I’ll, I’m—”

“Let me help,” Misha says immediately, trying to swing the door shut behind him. In Censor’s face. “Here, let me just—”

His head snaps back and his knees hit the tiles as he groans, his hands balled into fists as he rides out the zap. It’s short, thank God, but it’s barely over before Alien is shepherding him none too gently out of the bathroom.

“The hot water allocation has been exceeded,” Censor reminds them, still smiling. “Your assistance is not needed.” It shoves Misha—still shaking—out of the trailer.

“Wait,” Misha mumbles, trying to turn, and bless him, Jensen thinks, for having the strength to stand up to this thing even after it’s hurt him. “Wait, wait, I, I jus—”

Jensen gets a fleeting glimpse of Jared’s face outside before Misha is pushed into him and Alien locks the door behind them.

Jensen backs himself up as far as he can go. His trailer is big for a trailer, but it’s still a _trailer_ , and Alien takes up so much of it that it looks as though there isn’t anything _except_ smiling Invader.

Alien prizes the towel from him gently, and he only just remembers to let it go.

“There,” Alien says. “Isn’t it easier to obey?” It holds the towel beneath the shower head and turns the cold water on, wetting it thoroughly. “I understand your people are lenient with broken rules, but you do not belong to them anymore.” It wrings the towel out then wets it again. “Even if you did, the whole of your people now belong to the whole of mine, and until we complete our repairs of the damage you have done to this planet, you _all_ must adhere to our sanctions.”

Alien pauses like it’s asked a question it expects Jensen to answer. Except it hasn’t, and he doesn’t know what to say; somehow he doubts _please don’t hurt me again_ is what Alien’s waiting for. He tries, “I understand, Censor,” instead.

Alien nods. “You used more hot running water than humans in this sector are permitted.” Without it even looking at him, the back of his neck flares to life and he shouts, writhing against the wall. He doesn’t fall to his knees and he stays mercifully upright. _A three,_ he thinks. And then, _how fucking horrific that I know that already_.

“Sorry,” he gasps when it’s over. “It won’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” Alien agrees, terrifying in its conviction. It brings the towel over to him and wraps it around his calf. Its hand is easily big enough to circle him, but it uses both hands anyway. The towel is _freezing_ and he breaks out in immediate goosebumps, right up both legs and down the backs of his arms. Alien ignores his reflexive flinch and begins to scrub his leg. Thoroughly.

He clings to the wall like the smooth, wet tiles could possibly offer any support.

Alien wets the towel again. Wrings it out. Wets it. Brings it to his other leg so it’s freshly cold against his skin as Alien chafes him again. It goes a little bit higher, and he throws his head back against the wall as its hands come up between his thighs. Maybe if he bangs his head hard enough he’ll knock himself out. It pulls the towel away and holds it under the spray one-handed, leaving its other hand against his knee. Its skin is still hot but somehow it does nothing to ease the shiver that’s already started to wrack him.

When the towel comes back Alien doesn’t even bother easing him into it. It presses its hand up between his legs, as high as it can go, and scrubs at the mess there. The towel is scratchy and uncomfortable and Alien uses its fingers to shove the towel behind his balls and further back.

“D—” Jensen physically bites his tongue to swallow back the order. He knows damn well he’s not the one who gets to give them here, and Alien wouldn’t appreciate him trying, even by reflex.

Alien wedges the towel between his asscheeks, and Jensen flinches but manages, somehow, to stay put. It hurts—it can’t not—but the fact that he stays standing is testament to the fact that the nanobots have already healed him more than he thought would be possible.

With Alien’s fingers rubbing him . . . _there_ . . . his cock rests on the heel of its hand. He closes his eyes and breathes heavily through his nose, forcing himself to stay in place. He tells himself it’s bravery but truly the only thing stopping him from bolting for the door is fear.

Alien looks up at him. “I could cut you in half,” it says wonderingly, and Jensen’s trembling ratchets up exponentially. Do these things . . . is it _allowed_ to . . . “From your head right down the center of your body.” It puts a hand on his stomach and trails it down, as though imagining doing just that. It . . . it _wouldn’t_ , right? “And each side would look identical.” It tilts its head and shifts its hand. “Even this,” it says, bouncing his cock against its wrist.

Jensen feels his lips quiver but he just shakes his head, silently begging.

Alien ducks its head and resumes the awful shower. “You may have noticed that I am also bilaterally identical.” It smiles downwards, then back up at him. Is it… Is it being _bashful?_

“Right,” he croaks, when the silence stretches on. Alien wets the towel again, then stands. Its shoulders span the width of the shower, and its head brushes the roof, even though it’s ducking. It puts a hand on his shoulder and leans in and for a horrifying moment Jensen thinks it’s about to kiss him. But instead it just pulls him away from the wall, turns him around, then pushes him back. As soon as it’s out of eyesight his panic response ignites, sending static fear down his spine. His shoulders hunch up towards his ears, which makes it even worse when the ice-cold towel lays across his back. Alien rubs it with both hands, and ignores his shaking.

His entire front is pressed against the tiles, and they’re icy cold against his damp skin but he doesn’t even care because at least Alien’s not touching his cock anymore. His toes are curled against those freezing tiles and his nose is crushed there as he instinctively tries to get as much of him as far away as possible from the Invader behind him. It doesn’t work, of course. When Alien is satisfied with the icy sponge bath, which was rushed enough that Jensen suspects it was kind of half-assed, it throws the towel to the floor and leans up against the back of him, rubbing its hands down his shoulders and sides.

 _This is it,_ he thinks. _It’s happening again._ His breath comes in sharp little gasps against the wall. _At least nobody else has to watch it this time._

Alien steps back slightly, moving its hands to his hips. It tugs him backwards too quickly, so instead of stepping back he basically trips, landing against Alien’s hips as he goes on tiptoe and scrabbles for a foothold. The rough material of Alien’s pants is damp from the shower and from Jensen’s skin. It feels . . . It feels _awful_ against his ass. He can’t stop himself from jerking away, but Alien keeps him in place easily.

He expects the sound of Alien’s zipper. He expects the huge pressure of its cock. He expects it to jam itself inside him and take him screaming in his own fucking trailer.

Instead, it drops to its knees. It taps the inside of his thigh, and when he doesn’t immediately spread his legs it does it for him, shifting them wide apart so he has to lean against the wall again to stay balanced. He sucks in a cry because he knows what he must look like in this position. He fists his hands against the tiles and leans his forehead on them, begging to go _anywhere_ that isn’t here.

It spreads his cheeks and he’s so sure he’s about to feel it inside him—its fingers or its cock, he doesn’t know—that he can’t stop from tensing all the way up. His muscles lock into place in terrified anticipation.

But Alien just… looks. And breathes. It digs fingers into his cheeks to open them wider and shifts him side to side to get the best view.

He’s stumbled across porn like this before. Wonders with fresh horror if the next thing he’ll feel down there is Invader tongue. He can’t even begin to imagine what kind of awful adaptations Invader tongues have developed. And what it will feel like _inside_ him.

But then the hands are gone from his body and Alien stands up and says, “The nanobots have adapted well to your physiology. You are nearly healed. Come, our vehicle is waiting. Get dressed.”

For a moment Jensen wonders if he’s hallucinating. After all, he’s clearly forgotten how to breathe, and for all he knows, oxygen deprivation plus sheer terror equals hearing exactly what you want to hear. But then Alien steps out of the shower stall and the hairs on the back of Jensen’s neck settle for the first time since the unwanted company in his trailer arrived and he sucks in a huge, shuddery breath, and then another one, and then finally feels steady enough to chance straightening up. When he doesn’t pass out or even fall over, he stumbles out of the stall and into the little bedroom, where Alien is waiting with the clothes he wore in to work this morning.

“You have delayed too long,” it says, handing him the bundle. His phone is in the pocket of his jeans and he _needs_ to check it, to see if Danneel’s called, to make sure she’s okay. But he doesn’t dare. Not yet. “Our transit operator will not be pleased if you disrupt her schedule.”

Jensen strongly suspects that _will not be pleased_ is Invader-speak for _will literally torture you_. And it’s not as if he wants to stand here naked in front of Alien any longer than he has to anyway; he’s dressed in thirty seconds flat. Doesn’t even bother tying his shoes before gesturing for Alien to lead the way. When the door opens he ducks his head to avoid eye contact with both Misha and Jared, standing right outside, as well as the set medic a few yards behind them. They must have heard him shouting when he got zapped. And they waited here anyway. He doesn’t return Misha’s watery smile or Jared’s outstretched hand, just obediently follows Alien away, checking his phone as he goes.

Twelve missed calls, all Danneel. Thirty-one new texts, also all Danneel.

Shit.

He’s halfway to dialing her back when Alien snatches the phone from his hand. “We are late. Now is not the time for frivolities.”

Fuck that, and fuck _it_ too. He grits his teeth, curls his fingers into fists. Says nothing because he’s afraid he’ll rage instead of apologize if he lets himself unclench his jaw.

His phone still in its hand, Alien walks them to the parking lot at what Jensen assumes is its normal pace, and suddenly he understands how his kids feel when he forgets to slow down for their much shorter legs. Should’ve tied his damn shoes.

 _Really_ should’ve tied his damn shoes; he literally trips over his laces when he sees the ride waiting for them in the pickup zone. It’s . . . it’s . . .

It’s a fucking _spaceship_.

Well, okay, maybe more like a space puddle jumper, or a space Cessna, but still. The door slides back, and for like a whole two seconds, he forgets to be mad, or afraid.

 _Cool_.

But then he remembers who he’s getting into the space Cessna with, and why, and that fleeting moment of childish glee is replaced by a much more familiar terror.

Alien nudges him through the outsized doorway of what he can only assume is an outsized alien car. Alien taxi service? Whatever—the point is, obviously the Invaders wouldn’t _fit_ into normal human cars, so clearly they’ve brought their own. He settles in the outsized seat Alien gestures him toward—the one with what he can only describe as a fucking _toddler car seat_ attached to it for his little human body—and forces himself to hold still while Alien buckles him in. Six straps meeting in the centre with a clasp that sits right on his sternum.

The straps are too tight. He squeezes his eyes closed, clenches his fists. He’s _pinned_. Alien’s _touching him_ and he’s _pinned_ and this is not okay he’s not okay nothing will ever be okay aga—

Pain, there and gone in a heartbeat, shocks him out of his panic. He blinks up to see Alien staring down at him, concern on its features that morphs into a tentative smile. Did it . . . is that the Invader equivalent of a slap across the face for your own good?

Clearly it’s waiting for him to smile back. Thank god he’s an actor, because frankly, the only way he manages is via decades of practice dredging fake emotions onto his face on command.

Satisfied, it nods at him and takes its seat. The moment its own safety harness is buckled, the space Cessna pulls away from the curb. Like a normal car. Which he somehow finds room amidst the fear and panic to feel disappointed about; if he’s got to keep living through this shitshow of a day, the least he could fucking get is a ride in a flying fucking car.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They get stuck in traffic, and Jensen can’t help it, he laughs. It’s maybe a little hysterical but he’s a sex slave in an alien fucking space car and they’re _stuck in traffic._ He should be counting every second’s delay as a blessing—one more second he won’t have to walk into his new owner’s home, cower in his new master’s bed—but frankly he’s too tired for that bullshit and he just wants it over with already. He wants to see his wife and kids. He wants his damn phone back so he can make sure they’re okay.

He’s too afraid to ask.

Five minutes in traffic. Ten. Censor looks so tense Jensen’s half expecting it to zap him just to let some steam off. Finally it says something to the driver in their native tongue, and then . . .

 _Then_ Jensen gets his flying car. An engine revs, and for half a second everything vibrates, and then they’re just . . . lifting straight up off the highway and zooming out over the gridlock.

Jensen peeks out the nearest window, surprised to realize his heart’s pounding. Even in the current circumstances he’s got to admit it’s pretty damn cool. Must use a lot of energy, though, because they’re touching back down just a few miles later, on a local road far enough from the highway to be empty this time of night. A few miles after that, they’re pulling into a large circular driveway in front of an enormous Edwardian home. Just like the ones they end up shooting in so often, except easily twice the size. Which makes sense, he supposes, considering the size of the Invaders. They _need_ twelve-foot ceilings.

Not that Jensen wouldn’t pay real money to watch Alien bang its head on every doorway it passes through.

As soon as the engine cuts he automatically goes to remove the seatbelt, but finds that whatever locking mechanism it uses is designed to thwart puny human brains. He struggles with it for a second before Alien arrives at his side, deftly releasing him and brushing him with its hands as though looking for an injury—or just looking for an excuse to touch.

He doesn’t shrug it off, but stays tensed in the booster seat as fingers map his chest, following the lines of where the buckle had laid like a six-point star. Symmetrical, of course. He’s rewarded for his passivity when Alien pulls away and slips his phone in his hand like he’s been a good dog worthy of a treat. He holds it tight regardless. As soon as Alien turns away he opens his messages, dread sitting low in his stomach. If something’s happened to Danneel, or the kids . . . If this thing has _hurt_ them . . .

_11:53: There are Settlers at the house. They pulled the kids out of school. We’re ok but they’re making us pack bags._

_11:57: Where r u?_

_12:34: Jensen._

_12:35: THey’re packing up the kids’ rooms. R they taking our house? Call me. Pls._

_1:15 Jensen, where r u? U ok? IDk what’s happening they haen’t hurt us but they’re taking us somewhere._

_1:47: Wow. Austin to Vancouver in half an hour. We’re in some fancy house now. No one will tell us what’s happening. Pls call me when u get this._

_2:33: Kinda freaking out ha ha_

_2:35: Srsly tho answer ur damn phone_

_2:50: Jensen???_

Without thinking of the consequences, of the _What do I tell her_ and the _What will she think_ , he hits dial. He trots behind Alien dutifully and clutches the phone to his face and cringes as he’s led through the giant-sized door.

 _Pick up,_ he begs, and simultaneously thinks, _Don’t answer._ He hasn’t got the first clue how to explain the enormity of what’s happened, of what this is going to do to their family.

“Jensen!” he hears in stereo, coming from his phone and from—

“Dee!”

 

 

 


	2. Danneel

Her phone is on 12% and she’s only making it worse by checking it every ten seconds but she can’t help herself. She’s allowed full use of the house minus non-family bedrooms and offices—or so she’s been told—but her phone is plugged in at the kitchen sink so at the kitchen sink is where she’ll stay. The cook-slash-maid-slash-groundskeeper throws her yet another sympathetic glance as she reaches across Danneel to fill a pot with water.

It’s not just the two of them in the kitchen, though. The . . . other thing, the, the  _ bodyguard _ or whatever it is, sits idly in a chair and watches her. Just like it’s been watching since it first picked her up from work, kids already in the backseat of a sleek, outsized car that she knows for a fact has never been on any human market.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she tells it waspishly, thinking of Arrow and Zep (hopefully) asleep in a room down the hall, JJ in another one by herself. “You don’t have to guard me.”

It looks at her some more.

She checks the phone.

She types another message  _ (Jen please, call me!) _ , deletes, retypes  _ (I love you) _ , deletes, retypes  _ (I’m scared, where are you?) _ , deletes.

She opens a drawer, for lack of anything better to do. Shiny unmarked cutlery sits inside. Enormous by human standards but then, she’s not in a human kitchen, is she?

“Can I help you find something?” the maid asks. What was her name, again? Cathy? Kelly? Kimberly? Something like that.

Danneel shakes her head. “No thank you.”

Something whistles and thuds outside, and she recognises the alien sound of Invader-tech. She doesn’t want to be here. She  _ doesn’t want to be here. _

She checks her phone.

She checks her phone.

She checks her—

_ Brrrr! _

She snatches it off the sink ledge and is shaking so hard she can’t swipe properly. “Jensen?” she calls, before she’s managed to answer it. Then, “Jen? Jen?” again, clutching it to her ear, even though it’s not fully connected yet.

The front door opens and she turns on the spot, holding the phone so tight it might crack in two before she even gets to hear his voice.

Another Invader walks through the front door, smiling to itself, and behind it is . . .

“Jensen!”

He turns to her with something akin to honest terror and she can’t help herself, she launches at him. It’s not until his hands come up to belatedly hug her back that she realises something’s wrong. His hair is wet. His . . . his shoelaces are undone. He’s wrapped at least four hours early, come to think of it. She squeezes him tight and he  _ whimpers. _

“Jen?” She leans back and takes stock. His freckles are stark against his cheeks. His makeup isn’t quite all gone. His eyes are wild. “What’s wrong?” she says, touching his chest, his face. “Jen, what? What’s going on? Why are you—What’s happened?”

And right there in the foyer of a strange house, her husband bursts into tears.

“Hey,” she says in her best mom voice, bewildered but wrapping him in her arms again, one hand firm on his back and the other stroking through his hair. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

He buries his face in her neck, clinging tight and trembling, tears soaking through her shirt. He says nothing, so she fills in the gaps, murmuring soothing nonsense— _ nothing’s _ okay, obviously, but it’s just as obviously her turn to be the strong one right now—and waiting for him to wear himself out. Behind him, the Invader shifts its weight, like it’s anxious or maybe just awkward, and she squints at it over Jensen’s shoulder even as she presses a kiss to the crown of his head. It’s tall, taller even than most of its kind, and familiar . . .

Before she can place it, Jensen’s breath hitches and he mumbles something against her shoulder, pulling her attention back to where it belongs. 

“What?”

He lifts his head a fraction of an inch and repeats between sniffles, “The kids . . . Where are the kids?”

God, she loves him. Whatever’s happened, whatever’s  _ still  _ happening, his first and only thought is for their children.

“They’re safe.” She shuffles back half a step, and when he doesn’t chase after her, she steps back fully, moves her hands to his shoulders and holds him securely but far enough away to look him in the eye. “They’re fine, J. Asleep upstairs.”

“I need to—” He swipes at the wetness on his face with the back of one hand, smearing foundation across his cheekbone. The tears are drying up but he’s still a bigger mess than she’s ever seen him. He sucks in a hitching breath and wipes at the other half of his face. “I need to see them. Please.”

The Invader who brought Jensen in drops a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he flinches so hard she can hear it—a gasping breath, a swallowed whimper, a swoosh of clothing. Has it . . . did it hurt him?

“J, wait, what . . . ” She eyes the Invader. Remembers, now, where she’s seen it—it’s the Censor on the Supernatural set. What’s it doing  _ here _ ? “What’s going on? Please just tell me what’s going on?”

“The kids,” he says again, getting that wild look in his eyes. He shrugs out from under her hands but doesn’t push the Invader off.  _ What, _ she thinks.  _ What? _

“Jensen—”

He brushes past her and takes a firm step into the house. “Just let me see the kids,” he says, and she wonders why he’s asking her, almost like he’s begging, but then Censor takes its hand off his shoulder and  _ Oh, _ she realises, he wasn’t asking  _ her. _

He staggers up to the staircase landing, and she says, “Second floor. Turn left—JJ’s in the last room on the left, the twins in the last room on the right.” He has one hand on the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him up, but when she ducks under his arm he pushes away again. Behind them, Censor follows.

The lights in the hall are off and for a moment neither of them can spot the switch until she lifts her eyes and finds it at head height. Jensen’s already up the stairs and halfway down the hall by the time she gets them on, and though he looks terrified, he opens the twins’ door slowly, only letting a tiny bit of light through while he peeks in. 

She watches the back of his shoulders, and though she’s had over a decade of practice at reading him she finds nothing familiar in the hunch there. Whatever’s happened is something he has no capacity to deal with. She puts her hand on the small of his back and kisses his shoulder. Past him, she sees the two tiny beds, even tinier in comparison to the rest of the room. Someone snuffles sleepily, and Jensen closes the door. Without needing to be asked she gestures to the one across the hall, and follows him when he turns towards it. Just like her brother and sister, JJ is sound asleep, her little arm wrapped around the bear she had almost been forced to leave behind.

Jensen closes the door softly, with a shaking hand. He doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders slump, and he sags against the door jam, forehead resting against his arm.

Censor grips his shoulder again, and again he nearly jumps out of his skin. If she doesn’t find out what’s happening soon she’s going to scream. 

“You have seen your offspring,” it says. And then it pushes him toward the door set into the end of the hall, the one leading to the room that’s been assigned to Danneel. She still can’t see his face, but she can read the weary resignation in the lines of his body as he opens the door, as if he knows what’s behind it and he’s already given in to that terrible fate. But it’s just an antique bedroom with an attached antique bathroom, and the only thing terrible about it is that it’s  _ here _ . Wherever here is.

Once they clear the narrow hallway she moves to stand beside him, watching him take in the four-poster king bed, the Edwardian settee and loveseat and armchairs, the gilded dressing tables, the ornate wood wardrobes. It’s like a room out of a museum or a really high-end historic B&B, but its beauty seems to register no more for him than it did for her. She tries to take his hand but that doesn’t seem to register either. Or maybe it does—he curls his fingers into a fist. She tries not to let that hurt. She knows she’s not the problem here.

“Jensen,” she tries again when they’ve all been standing there a little too long. She glances back at Censor, and it’s wearing that same anxious-or-maybe-awkward expression it was before. Its hand is still gripping Jensen’s shoulder which, along with his jaw, is tensed in a way that makes her worry it’s hurting him. “Why don’t we all sit down,” she suggests. Maybe then Censor will let her husband go.

The look he throws her is desperate. Desolate. He heads toward an armchair but only makes it half a step before Censor tugs him to the loveseat instead, where it forces him to sit down next to it. It takes up so much space on the little piece that Jensen’s practically smooshed up between it and the loveseat’s arm. He looks up at her as if to say  _ thanks for trying _ , then swallows hard and drops his gaze to his lap. 

Danneel moves toward the settee. Hesitates. Sits down all the way on one side, forces a smile, and pats the cushion beside her. “Can I borrow my husband?” she asks, burying the fear and anger in her voice with what she hopes passes for good-natured humor.

Jensen tenses, eyes wide, like somehow she’s just  _ really  _ stepped in it. She turns to Censor, who isn’t smiling. But it isn’t scowling, either. Face impassive, it says, “Human communication is more effective and efficient when participants can see each other’s full bodies and faces.” And as if to prove that, it stares intently at her.

What a bizarrely roundabout way of saying  _ no _ .

It takes her a second to realize she should be more concerned about  _ why  _ it said no than  _ how _ .

“You are almost as symmetrical as your husb—”

“ _ Hey _ !” Jensen barks, turning to grab Censor’s arm with both hands and give it a hard shake. “No.  _ Absolutely not,  _ you hear me?”

Danneel winces as Censor looks down (and down some more) at Jensen, who suddenly seems to realize who—or rather what—he’s shouted at and manhandled (alienhandled?). She’s never seen one retaliate in person but she’s heard what they can do. Maybe Jensen  _ has  _ seen it, though, because he shrinks back as much as he can, which is all of half an inch, and loosens his grip on Censor’s arm. 

But he doesn’t apologize, and the look on his face is as fierce and furious as it was when he’d turned on it.

Censor’s serene expression is a stark, frightening contrast. It seems to contemplate Jensen. The longer it goes without blinking, the more fear creeps onto her husband’s face.

That same fear creeps deep into her bones. It  _ has  _ hurt him. She doesn’t know how, or why, but he’s never looked at  _ anything  _ like he’s looking at Censor, bravado and loathing and panic all in one. It’s pure Dean Winchester staring down the devil. And she knows with absolute certainty that he’s put himself in this position to protect her, even if she doesn’t yet understand from what.

The other thing she knows with absolute certainty is that if she had a gun right now, she’d shoot Censor right in its serene fucking face, consequences be damned.

The standoff between them all is very suddenly broken by Jensen’s startled scream. He doubles over, both hands clutching to his neck, oozes off the cushion and to his elbows and knees. She doesn’t know what’s happening but she damn well knows whose fault it is and suddenly she’s on her feet, right in Censor’s face, shouting, “Stop it! Stop! Please!”

She barely manages to swallow the “You fucking asshole!” Somehow she doesn’t think it would help their cause.

Censor turns its serene expression on her. Jensen’s  _ still screaming _ , and she doesn’t know when she started crying but she swipes angrily at the tears and looks the Invader in the eye and says, with as much humility as she can manage, “Please, Censor.  _ Please _ .” Drops to her knees at its enormous feet. Tilts her head back to hold its gaze.

Jensen goes mercifully silent. 

Well, not  _ silent  _ silent—he’s panting hard, a rough little noise on each exhale, but at least he’s stopped screaming. She turns to him, lays her hands over his where they’re digging into the back of his neck. Tugs them gently away. There’s no wound there, nothing to help her understand what’s hurt him. He shifts, lifts up just enough to press his forehead to her thighs, and she covers his head with one hand, presses tentatively at his neck with the other. When it doesn’t seem to cause pain, she rubs in earnest, feeling knot after knot in the tense muscles beneath her fingers. 

Her own muscles tense as the horror sinks in, long and slow. This . . . this  _ thing  _ has just . . . has just  _ tortured  _ her husband right in front of her and it’s, it’s  _ real _ , it’s not TV and it’s not Dean Winchester’s fake-suffering she’s seen a thousand times, it’s  _ Jensen  _ and it’s  _ real  _ and it’s . . . it’s . . .

She’s going to be sick. 

Jensen must sense something in her body language, because his breathing settles and he murmurs “M’okay” into her lap. She keeps rubbing his neck and stroking his hair and tries not to think of what just happened, tries to pretend it was just another scene, just a normal day at work of Dean getting his ass kicked like he always does. She holds her breath and listens for the sounds of little feet in the hall, praying the kids somehow managed to sleep through the noise because they’re not old enough yet to understand what’s real and what isn’t and she wishes she weren’t either but she is and she needs to pull it together, get her fucking shit together  _ right now  _ because Jensen needs her, he  _ needs  _ her.

She closes her eyes. Breathes deep. Focuses on the feel of the soft hairs at the nape of Jensen’s neck beneath the tips of her fingers.

They get ten, maybe fifteen seconds together like that before Censor reaches down, wraps one gigantic hand around the back of Jensen’s neck, right where she had been massaging, and hauls him back onto the loveseat. 

“Return to your seat,” it tells her, and she hates it, God, she  _ hates  _ it. Still, she does as she’s told. But she does it without ever taking her eyes off the Invader. It’s too busy staring at Jensen to notice. 

“I’m sorry, Censor,” Jensen says, voice hoarse and cracking. He’s still breathing hard, but at least he’s stopped making those awful little noises. “But the law . . . She’s not . . . You can’t . . .”

“I know our own laws, Jensen.” Censor sounds . . . amused, almost? “Your fear is unfounded. As was your tone. And your actions. Do you understand why I had to discipline you?”

Jensen blinks. Nods. Drops his eyes back to his hands, twisting in his lap.

Censor seems satisfied. If it ever was actually angry at Jensen, it doesn’t seem to be now. Truth be told, she doesn’t understand what either of them had to be angry about. It had called her, what . . . symmetrical? So what?

“My apologies for this regretfully necessary unpleasantness,” it says, and Danneel realizes it’s not talking to Jensen, it’s talking to  _ her _ . “Now, I believe you had questions for your husband?”

So many she doesn’t know where to begin:  _ Has it done this to you before? Has it done  _ worse _? Is that why you’ve been so spooked? What law were you talking about? Why were you so threatened when it called me symmetrical? Why were you so afraid for the kids? _

But she shunts all that aside to start—she hopes—from the beginning. Except, instead of asking  _ Why are we here _ like she meant to, her mouth asks, “Are you okay?”

The single, hoarse laugh Jensen coughs out is so sickly it dies in the space between them.

She waits, but he says nothing else. This time she gets the question out right, more or less: “Babe. Please. I’m scared. Why did they bring us here?”

It takes Jensen a long, long moment to answer, but she doesn’t think it’s because he’s testing replies in his head. He’s just . . .  _ blank _ . In shock, maybe?

“Because of me,” he finally says, and she realizes it’s not shock, or rather, not  _ all  _ shock. There’s guilt there too. Anger. Fear. Disgust.  _ Hate _ .

It’s too much. She wants to be gentle, understanding, but it’s just . . . it’s  _ all too much  _ and she can’t stop herself from saying, “I’m gonna need you to be a little more specific than that, J.”

Somehow, miraculously, he quirks a smile at her. It’s there and gone in a flash but it does its job, and she feels her shoulders unhunching a little. “I’m, uh.” He clears his throat, clears it again. His eyes have dropped back to his lap. “It seems that I’ve been drafted to the, uh.” There’s another one of those miserable little DOA laughs. “The Elite Workforce.”

The Elite . . . “A  _ slave _ ?” she blurts. Somehow she’s on her feet again, and she forces herself back down. Turns her eyes to Censor and clarifies, “ _ Its  _ slave?”

Censor sniffs demurely. “We prefer the term  _ Elite Worker _ .” And then, like it thinks it’s being helpful, “After all, technically your entire species are now slaves to mine. But the Elites are specially chosen.”

“Specially . . .” She huffs, shakes her head. Can’t fucking believe what she’s hearing. “Specially chosen for  _ what _ ?”

Censor turns an expectant gaze on Jensen, as if to say,  _ You tell her _ . He looks flushed, sweaty, weary beyond words. In no condition to tell her anything.

“Per—” His voice cracks into an honest-to-god squeak. He’s cleared his throat so many times since he walked through the door of this house she’s surprised he has any throat left to clear. “Personal service?” 

Seriously? Could he  _ be  _ any vaguer? It’s been a long, long, long scary fucking day and she just, she  _ can’t _ . “What does that mean?” she snaps. “Like a butler?”

Jensen nods like a bobble-head, frantic and more-or-less up and down but also off to both sides. “Sure.” He’s squeaking again. “Yeah. Like a butler.”

“Jensen.”

Ugh, she hates his name in Censor’s mouth. She hates that this alien thing gets a piece of him like that. Jensen hunches up like he feels the weight of it too.

“Like a butler,” he says again, quieter. Pleading.

“Not like a butler,” Censor corrects, and Jensen flinches and yelps, like he’s just been shocked.  _ Has _ he? She finds herself more at a loss than before.

“What kind of personal service?” she asks, eyes on Jensen but watching Censor too. Something builds at the base of her stomach, like she already knows what he’s going to say. She feels slowed down. “J? What kind of personal service?”

Jensen opens his mouth. Closes it. Clears his throat. Opens his mouth again. And then he shakes his head. “I . . . “ he says. “I can’t . . . It’s . . . “

Jensen winces again, clutches at his neck.

“Deliberate withholding of information is analogous to direct lying,” Censor says sternly. “And my people do not abide lies.  _ Especially  _ among our chosen Elite.”

She swivels between them both, trying to read between the lines. Is he getting punished for her question? “That’s okay,” she says quickly. She can find out later, when they’re alone. “You don’t need to—”

“Answer the question,” Censor says again, ignoring her. Jensen gasps and cringes, face contorted in pain. But he only shakes his head.

“Please,” he rasps, in lieu of an answer. “She doesn’t— She doesn’t need to know.”

Abruptly, Censor stands. “You are married. You have signed a contract. Made vows to share in all things. Your union is lawful and your lies are not.  _ Answer the question. _ Or I will answer it for you, and you will not like that.”

Jensen’s on the verge of tears. His lip quivers, and he  _ tries _ , she can see him trying, but in the end he just shakes his head again. Censor makes a terrible sound in the back of its throat, like a deep hollow  _ click _ in an empty cave. Then it grabs Jensen’s arms, pulls him bodily off the loveseat, spins him, and throws him over the back so his feet only barely scrape the floor. He gets his palms beneath him and goes to push up but Censor plants one giant hand in the small of his back and he goes flat in an instant. Danneel realises she’s on her feet almost before she realises  _ Why _ . 

“Wait,” she says. “Wait, stop, what are you . . .”

But the question dies on her tongue because Censor answers the  _ What _ about as clearly as possible. It grips the back of her husband’s jeans and yanks hard, jerking them down without bothering to undo the belt or fly. Something  _ pop _ s, something else  _ snap _ s, and Jensen makes an awful hitching cry that she will never for the rest of her life forget.

“Wait,” she says again, but her voice is quiet even to her own ears. She should’ve known. She should’ve  _ known _ . She has eyes, after all. And a lifetime of her own experience being viewed as an object of desire and nothing more. Not to mention that she’s already met the cook-slash-maid-slash-groundskeeper; what other need could this Invader possibly have? She should’ve . . . God, why’d she push? Why didn’t she  _ know _ ? “That’s not— You can’t.”

There’s not much she hasn’t seen before, especially of her husband’s naked body. But there are flecks of white drying on the backs of his thighs that she knows for a fact weren’t there this morning. Jensen cries out again and reaches back as though to cover himself but it’s too late, she’s seen, she’s  _ seen. _

“Your spouse is quite fortunate to have been gifted such a prestigious role,” Censor says, and it drags a thumb from the base of Jensen’s spine down to where his balls are tight against his body. “He will want for nothing in your new world. Nor will you, or your offspring.” Jensen lets out a mournful sound and then goes limp, and if she didn’t feel the same desire to go blank she would almost think he had passed out.

“Jen,” she whispers, and goes to his side.

“He is well-suited for his new role,” Censor continues, and this time when it thumbs at her husband she can’t stop herself from clutching its wrist. Instead of hurting her like it did him, it says, like she isn’t grabbing it for all she’s worth, “See? He has already healed from this afternoon.” 

_ This afternoon.  _ It’s done this to him already, it’s . . . it’s  _ raped  _ him. Violently enough for him to  _ need  _ to heal. She can’t . . . she closes her eyes instead of looking at where it’s pointing. 

“Oh,” she says quietly, and then, “I don’t . . . I need to sit down.” She doesn’t want to leave Jensen alone with this  _ thing _ , she  _ can’t  _ leave him alone with this thing, but she’s . . . she can’t breathe and she’s going to pass ou—

Something flares at the back of her neck and she gasps, but it’s not pain, exactly. Just heat. Censor cocks its head at her. “You are suffering no physical ailments,” it informs her. Its hand is still on Jensen’s back, and Jensen’s shoulders are hitching beneath it as he cries quietly into the cushions. Another flare of heat, and Censor says, “Ah. You are in shock. Such a strange human weakness.” 

Suddenly there’s air again, and the dizziness is gone, and that’s almost worse because now she’s clear-headed and sharp and exquisitely  _ aware  _ of what this monster is about to do— _ again _ —to the love of her life. 

Except, maybe . . . Maybe if she . . .

She touches Censor’s arm again, but this time she strokes instead of grabbing. She doesn’t feel sexy in the slightest—she feels like a fucking wreck, in fact—but she knows exactly how to cock her hip and arrange her face no matter how she’s feeling and she looks up at Censor through her lashes and says, “Thank you, Censor.” And then, “Why don’t you forget about him and let me thank you proper—”

“ _ No! _ ” Jensen explodes into a tangle of flailing limbs and shouting and he’s thrashing like a damn wildcat, uncontainable,  _ Don’t you fucking dare, Danneel  _ and  _ I will kill you if you touch her  _ and  _ Don’t, please, don’t!  _ until Censor hauls him bodily off the loveseat and slams him down on the bed where it can climb on top of him and pin him in place. He goes quiet but only, Danneel thinks, because Censor’s so heavy on top of him he can’t breathe.

Only after the silence settles, so thick it’s suffocating her too, does she realize that Censor could’ve stopped him with a zap instead and chose not to. Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing she can’t figure. What she  _ is  _ sure of, however, is that if it  _ had  _ hurt him like that, it would’ve been her fault. She’d only been trying to help, but . . . God, she could’ve gotten him killed.

“Just do it,” Jensen moans into the bedspread, voice heavy with tears and defeat. “Just get it over with and leave us alone.”

Censor climbs off of him, carefully, like it's making sure Jensen isn’t planning to fight again. But Danneel can see there’s no fight left in him. Not for himself, anyway. He’s spent it all on her.

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . 

She doesn’t know what to do. What to say. Should she stay? Go? Hold his hand? 

Censor tugs at Jensen’s t-shirt, pulls it over his head without any resistance. His boxer-briefs and jeans, bunched around his ankles, come off next, along with his shoes. He’s naked now, except, oddly, for his socks. Jensen flops back down onto the bed, fingers tightening in the covers, and Censor straddles his calves, leans forward to run both hands up Jensen’s back. Every muscle tenses, popping in stark relief, but he doesn’t fight.

He does beg, but it’s not for him, it’s for her. “Let her go. Please.”

“She will stay,” Censor says, hands running down Jensen’s back and cupping the cheeks of his ass.

He rolls as far as he can with Censor pressing his hips to the bed. “But she knows now! She knows everything!” His eyes, red-rimmed and pleading, bore straight into Censor’s over his shoulder, and she can’t even imagine how ice-cold its heart must be to look into that soulful, tear-strewn face and feel nothing. “Please, Censor,  _ please _ . She’s done nothing wrong—don’t punish her like this!”

“It is regrettable that your discipline must necessarily involve her suffering as well, but in this too you must be bonded. Perhaps it will lead you to consider your actions more carefully in future.” Before Jensen can do or say anything to provoke it further, Censor turns to Danneel and says, “Come. Join us.”

She gapes at it; can’t help herself. But her feet go one in front of the other anyway, almost without her consent. And ha, how ironic to be thinking of consent right now. With her husband naked and splayed on a bed that’s supposed to be theirs, beneath an Invader that can do whatever it pleases to him.

“Not again,” Jensen moans, and it hits her all over that it’s done this to him once  _ already _ . At least once. At  _ work _ . “Please, God, Censor, please don’t do this. Punish  _ me.” _

“Come,” Censor says again, firmer. It ignores Jensen completely and indicates the sliver of the bed that it’s not taking up. The bed is human-sized and Censor looks even larger in contrast. She wonders, abstractly, whether the bed is strong enough to support the three of them. She sits on the mattress and hopes that it collapses beneath her, but it doesn’t even creak.

Censor gets to its knees and hauls Jensen backwards with the grip on his waist. Jensen scrabbles at the sheets and she can’t stop herself from taking his hands, instinct to comfort winning out over fear. He grips back, hard, as Censor arranges him so he’s lying on its thighs, legs spread backwards around its waist.

_ This is going to happen, _ she realises belatedly. She stares at her fingers white-knuckled around Jensen’s.  _ I can’t do anything to stop it. _

“Honey,” she whispers. Jensen flinches bodily, face scrunching into the mattress. “It’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here.”

Jensen shakes his head but he doesn’t let go of her hand. “You don’t understand,” he says, words muffled in the sheets. He flinches again, and she realises in a there-but-not-there kind of way that Censor’s hands are digging into her husband’s skin. Its fingers are . . . 

She lies down so she can press close to the side of Jensen’s face. “Want me to talk?” she asks. “Or . . . I could sing.” She tries for a laugh, but Jensen doesn’t follow. “Or you could kiss me, baby? Pretend that it’s me?” She presses her nose to the crease where his cheek meets the mattress. She whispers as quiet as she dares, trying to keep this last thing between them. “Pretend it’s me looking after you, Jen. Just how you like it.”

This time Jensen does laugh, but it’s bitter and wet and when he turns his face to the side she sees that he’s grimacing hard. She forces herself not to look down the length of their bodies. Forces herself not to notice the wet sound of something between Jensen’s legs. Hopes to God that this thing knows how to prepare a human for what it’s about to do. That it’s not . . . proportionate. Or barbed. Or prehensile. Or whatever other weird alien shit might be hiding under its pants.

“You don’t understand,” Jensen says again, and then his whole body jolts forward like every muscle is flinching at once. She doesn’t mean to look. She tells herself she’s not going to. But it’s there in the corner of her eye and even though she only got a glimpse, she knows that what she’s seen will be engraved on the backs of her eyelids for the rest of her life. Her husband’s thighs tight with tension, and between them Censor’s hands, gripping hard. And between  _ them . . . _ She realises she’s crying, too.  _ You don’t understand, _ Jensen said, and she really didn’t. It’s not prehensile or barbed but it’s so enormous there’s no way it can possibly go where Censor wants to put it.

She tries to say his name but she chokes on a sob at the same time. Maybe he understands, though, because his fingers clench around hers.

“Don’t look,” he begs. “Dee, please. Don’t look. I can’t have . . . Please, not you too.”

Her vision is blurred with tears but she’s focused so intently on him that she can’t possibly miss the wave of agony that crosses his face right before he shouts. Without looking she knows that Censor has pulled its fingers free and replaced them with the head of its cock. She trembles but covers Jensen’s mouth with the palm of her hand, his fingers still tight around her own. She can’t fathom the idea of one of the kids coming to investigate the source of all the noise. This house is lavish enough that it probably has insulated walls, but money and architecture can only do so much. Jensen must understand because his other hand moves to cover hers, holding them tight against his face. His breath comes harsh from his nose, but even when his whole body rocks forward under the strain of what’s happening between his legs, his scream of pain doesn’t get past their fingers.

Censor is under no such constraints, be they moral or acoustic. It makes a gutteral sound that echoes terribly and its hands claw down Jensen’s back. She can’t help but watch them as they find a new grip: one on his waist and another on his shoulder. It yanks backwards and Jensen scrabbles without connecting with Censor, like he’s fighting the bed instead of the Invader. She almost loses her hold but then his hand comes back to grip her wrist and his eyes open wide and search for hers. She doesn’t have a clue what’s on her face and she doesn’t have a hope of forming a smile, but she nods and lets him see that she’s still there, she’s not going anywhere.

Censor appears to pause for breath. The hand on Jensen’s shoulder slides down his back and splays across his trembling skin. Jensen shudders and hiccoughs another small scream.

“Isn’t it easier to obey?” Censor asks. Its massive frame shifts and Jensen shifts with it, moaning as his hips are forced up before Censor settles again. “I have heard that given time your people can learn to achieve sexual satisfaction in this manner.” It shifts again and Jensen’s head drops. She thinks this thing must be more than just delusional to believe that, but she keeps her thoughts to herself and clings to Jensen as best as she can. “I believe your husband would benefit from such an arrangement.” Oh God, it’s talking to  _ her? _ She has no possible answer, and no possible way of voicing it. Her tongue is thick in her mouth, and so dry. “As soon as he learns obedience,” it concedes. “I certainly hope this will occur before the peak of my cycle.”

Peak of its  _ what? _

Jensen groans again, and she spreads her fingers just a little so he can pull in a harsh breath. The skin around his mouth is cold to the touch, and there’s sweat at his temples. She brushes her free hand through his hair, and murmurs something that’s not really words. Jensen heaves once, like he’s about to throw up.

“Censor,” she whispers, not taking eyes off him. “Please, he’s . . . We’ve learned our lesson. We’ll obey. We  _ are  _ obeying. Please, you, he’s . . .” She chokes for a second on the reality of what she’s saying, on the tears she’s desperately trying to hold in for Jensen’s sake. “You’re hurting him.”

Censor grumbles a deep, unsatisfied sound. It doesn’t punish her with a zap, but it also doesn’t pull out.

“The lesson may be finished,” it says, “but I am not.” It raises up onto its knees and brings Jensen’s hips up with it, both hands now on his hips, so enormous they almost make a complete circle around him. She’s already promised herself that she won’t look but when it pulls out she find that she can’t turn away. There’s so much of it that she can’t fully comprehend where it’s been. Jensen lurches as it slides free, gagging like his whole body is trying to force everything out at once. There’s blood on its cock and on the inside of Jensen’s thighs and she mentally notes that she must be going into shock again because her first thought isn’t panic or horror but rather a comparison between this blood (real blood,  _ Jensen’s _ blood) and the stuff they use on set. It’s vividly red and smeared messily in a way she dazedly acknowledges the crew would never allow. It looks fake. It  _ can’t _ be real. This can’t be her husband stretched out and bleeding at the hands of an Invader.

The huge monstrous hands readjust their grip and the huge monstrous cock begins to wedge itself back in place. Censor keens happily and she blinks, shaking her head.

“Dee,” Jensen chokes, and she realises he’s been saying her name for a while, muffled between tears. “Stop,” he begs. “You said you wouldn’t, you . . .” He chokes again. “Don’t look.”

He’s trembling so hard she tries instinctively to comfort him but she’s shaking just as bad, and the hand she puts on his cheek feels numb. 

“Jen,” she whispers. His shoulders rock into the mattress as Censor fucks into him again. She claps her hand back over his mouth in time to smother his scream. She leaves it there and is glad (horrified) that she does, because Censor seems to run out of patience or restraint or whatever passes for self-control in this species, and it hauls Jensen back against it in an ever-increasing tempo, pushing screams out with every thrust. She can’t get close to him anymore because his body is being driven too heavily into the bed and she’s at risk of getting knocked out by a limb or shoulder. The wet  _ smack _ of skin meeting skin is almost too much to bear and she wishes she could cover her ears. But he can’t cover his, and she won’t leave him alone like that. She  _ can’t _ .

She finds herself singing, after all. Not really any sort of tune, or any sort of song. Words just crammed together one after the other so there’s something  _ (anything) _ that isn’t the brutal sound of Censor raping Jensen.

“It’s almost over,” she croons. “Baby, I’m here, It’s almost over, it’ll be okay, I’m here.”

“It’s not,” Jensen cries out from behind her hand, and he’s struggling again. His hands twist weakly in the sheets as he tries to crawl away. 

_ It is, _ she thinks.  _ It has to be over soon. _ She doesn’t know what they’ll do if it goes on any longer. Neither of them would survive. She sings half-forgotten lullabies and stupid songs from her teens. She hushes him and promises that they’ll get through it, that it’s about to end, that she loves him and she loves him and she loves him.

Censor’s hands move again, and from her periphery she notes that one hand is now palm-down on the small of Jensen’s back, and the other is beneath him, squeezing, like it’s trying to make its hands meet in the middle.

_ What now? _ she thinks, but is quickly distracted by Jensen screaming again. She clamps both hands over his face and holds on, hushing him desperately, riding the wave of Censor’s increasingly erratic thrusts. Censor rears back and bares its teeth and opens its mouth wide and she thinks she knows what’s coming and she can’t help herself from begging  _ “Please, _ Censor, the kids, please don’t wake them.” And maybe it hears her or maybe it wasn’t going to make a noise anyway because instead of shouting it makes a series of grunts, getting harsher and harsher until it shoves Jensen away from itself on a panted exhale. 

Jensen is the one who screams, broken and wet against her palm, his legs thrashing and his fists pounding the mattress. She tries to hold on as best as she can and she rolls up tight against his side, still singing somehow, still promising him it’s almost over. She props herself up on her elbow to kiss the side of his face and again she doesn’t mean it, she didn’t mean to look, but it’s so alien that she’s completely unprepared for the bloody stretch of Jensen’s body around what appears to be the engorged head of its cock.

The lullaby she’s halfway through peters off and dies, and she tastes bile in the back of her mouth. “Don’t,” Jensen garbles, but it’s too late. She can’t tear her eyes off it as fresh dribbles of blood flow from his ass and Censor gives one last grunt and Jensen gives one last scream and that cock springs free. 

The place where it used to be tapered is nearly the size of a softball and deep purple, and it visibly swells again before erupting something gelatinous and starkly white, splattering thickly like hot molasses on Jensen’s ass and lower back. Censor hisses between its teeth and uses the heel of its hand to press the still-swollen head—now the size of a baseball—into the crease at the top of Jensen’s ass. Another stream of the awful ejaculate cascades over Jensen’s hips and she has to cover her mouth with one hand to hold back the horrified sound she makes. A sound that Jensen voices immediately after as Censor uses its thumb to push the shrinking head back into his ass. It’s nowhere near as large as it was only a few moments prior, but it’s still far too enormous to fit. That doesn’t appear to dissuade Censor because it merely grunts and digs a thumb in ahead of its cock to make room, yanking outwards to pull Jensen further open. 

Jensen’s moan is beyond broken, and his body barely lurches when Censor finally makes enough room to force back inside. Danneel’s never felt so useless in her life—all she can do is hold his hand and pray she’s not lying when she repeats that it’s almost over. Censor rocks into Jensen shallowly, lazily, hands straying almost fondly up and down the lax muscles of Jensen’s back as it rides down its high. It makes no effort to avoid the mess it’s left.

She knows she promised Jensen that she wouldn’t look, but it’s too late for that now. She’s seen everything. So she doesn’t bother hiding her face when it finally slips free, viscous pink-tinged fluid coming out after it. 

None of them move for a few long minutes. She touches her fingertips to Jensen’s face carefully, but he doesn’t lean into her. He doesn’t lean away, either. Eventually Censor rolls to its feet and draws its pants back up the tree-trunks it calls thighs. She’s so beyond horror that she can’t even find a sliver of emotion at the sight of the thick ropes of muscle there, or the complete absence of hair. She hums faintly, tunelessly. Jensen is motionless beside her.

“A vehicle will arrive at 7am to transfer you and your family to your designated employment and education locations.” It smiles at them, looking . . . cheerful. “Breakfast will be made available forty-five minutes prior to departure. I’m certain you will quite enjoy the food options here. My chef is excellent.” Again it smiles, and she thinks there’s something she’s supposed to say. She can’t for the life of her figure out what it is. She can’t fully process what it’s saying.

“Thank you, Censor,” Jensen mumbles beside her, not even stirring. 

“In this house you are also free of water and electricity rationing.”

“Thank you, Censor.”

“I trust your life here will be without friction.”

This time there’s a pause before Jensen manages, still monotonous, “Thank you, Censor.”

Censor brushes a crease from its trousers, nods once, and leaves. The door falls heavily into place behind it, and Jensen hitches a wet cry into the mattress before going still.

“Jensen,” she whispers. She pushes his hair back even though there really isn’t much of it to get in his face. “Honey, I’m so—” she can’t word such a useless apology so she stops there. Jensen doesn’t react either way. “Jen, I, how can I help? Can I—Do you think you could drink some water?” A small shake of the head. She gropes for the blanket that’s crumpled at the foot of the bed and drags it over them both, not caring if it gets ruined by the mess. “Honey,” she says again, when he still doesn’t respond.

“I’m okay,” he says woodenly.

That’s so laughable she doesn’t even know where to begin, can’t think of what to say. What ends up coming out of her mouth is, “You’re bleeding.”

There’s a long pause. He blinks a few times. Doesn’t look at her. “Nanobots’ll heal me,” he finally says.

She has . . .  _ so  _ many questions. Can’t voice a single one of them.

“I’m gonna shower,” Jensen says in that same awful monotone.

“Okay.” He doesn’t move to get up. “I could come with you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Jen—”

“I’m fine. I don’t need help.”

Translation:  _ I need to be alone.  _ It hurts, but she gets it. She really does. She kisses his shoulder, touches his face. “Okay,” she says again. “I can go and . . . check on the kids.” He doesn’t respond, and doesn’t try to stop her. She creeps out from under the blanket and walks backwards towards the door, waiting for she doesn’t know what. A sign, something. But there’s just the heavy unmoving shape of Jensen curled up beneath the blankets.

She reaches the door and opens it carefully, wary of little faces on the other side. The hallway is clear and she steps out, reaching to shut the door behind her. Jensen still hasn’t moved. 

“We’re going to figure this out,” she promises quietly. She believes it. She  _ has  _ to believe it.

Jensen doesn’t reply for so long that she thinks he hasn’t heard. She’s about to close the door when he says, voice heavy, “I know.”

She wishes she could believe him, too.


End file.
